And this is why girls love their ponies……. WARNING ADULT CONTENT

Sitting astride him, strong thighs wrapped round his waist, she cannot help but notice how delicate, even fragile his body is.
His chest is narrow, the skin pale, soft, almost hairless, she can see each rib, a delicate birdcage of bones, His body moving upwards in rhythmic movement. She focuses, starts to pay attention, her movements mirroring his, her buttocks, muscular, firm, lifting an inch or two away from his groin with each upward thrust.
He groans.
Pleasure ?
Pain ?
She wonders if she has been too firm, too strong.
His hip bones are sharp, razor like. She can almost imagine them grazing the delicate skin of her inner thighs and she moves with him, trying to keep the rhythm, feels herself get left behind and hoping to camouflage her loss of momentum, she leans towards his face. His breath is on her, soft, smelling of red wine and cigarettes.
With one hand, she gently traces the angles of his face, runs a finger over his lips, his mouth opens and his teeth nip at that finger, catching the end of her nail.
She moves her hand into his hair, short, a no nonsense no 2 all over. Her caress causes him to writhe, his head thrown back on the pillow and she is drifting, drifting away………….
The other one, the other one, her stolen moment that morning, he is creeping into this moment, his presence filing her, diminishing the man beneath her.

HIS muscles, taut, firm against her hands, her thighs, her bum. His every movement radiates strength, certainty, a muscularity of purpose. She moved happily against HIM, the rythmn one of knowingness, beyond conscious though.

At full gallop she is aware only of the speed, the strength, his power beneath her and when they are alone together, away from prying eyes, she gives her self totally to the moment.

Her jodphurs are tight.
Skin tight.

She pushes her self deeper into the saddle, feeling her cunt moisten, react to the pressure,the movement, the animal smell.

Her fingers curl into his mane, tugging tighter and tighter as she comes closer to orgasm and she kicks him on, pushing for a last blast of eye watering speed.

At the top of the hill, they both pause, re-gain their breath, his sides are heaving. She leans her head into his, rubbing her face on the soft velvetyness of his neck, his ears.

She sighs, stretches her legs, feels and savors the after shocks of tiny, tiny pin pricks of pleasure.

Shaking her head, dragging herself back to this presence, looks down at the man beneath her, her hips rotate, his prick held tight within her.

She rides him hard, pushes him to come, to cry out and then to sink, fall back on the pillow, passion spent.

And afterwards, when they lie together, in easy familiarity, his hand tracing lazy circles on her breasts, he wonders, not for the first time, what exactly it is she thinks about when they have sex.

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About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions.
Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down
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